


The Problem With Sheep

by Pippins_Mushr00ms



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Gen, General, Hurt/Comfort, i guess, i just write, idk - Freeform, im no good at tags, monks and stuff, shepard diarmuid, standard worried mute, sure, we'll roll with that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippins_Mushr00ms/pseuds/Pippins_Mushr00ms
Summary: The trouble with sheep is that they're skittish. Diarmuid finds out the hard way.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	The Problem With Sheep

Diarmuid goes off to find a sheep at night and gets hurt. When he realizes how far away he is, he makes peace with the fact he'll be sleeping outside tonight, unless…?

Or:

In Which The Mute Is Very Worried and Protective of His Small Friend.

Note: it ain't good, but it's something, hahaha

* * *

 _'Blast you, you silly sheep,'_ Diarmuid thought, forcing his way through another thicket. He used his Shepard crook, trying to twist the thorny branches out of his way as best he could.

The sky was growing steadily pink. Streaks of purple cloud overhead indicated the rapidly approaching sunset.

The young novice whistled again and clucked his tongue.

"Come out, sheepy!" He called, forcing his voice to stay light. It would do no good to scare the jumpy creature more than she was. He whistled again. "Come on! It's time to go home!"

Only the twilight silence answered him. The young man groaned softly. He would have to give up the search soon. The Brother with whom Diarmuid had been watching the flock with had gone ahead. He claimed he'd be back soon with some extra eyes after he penned the animals. Diarmuid agreed and opted to stay back, so as not to lose the trail. The woods, though familiar, were still dangerous at night.

He shoved his dark locks off his sweaty forehead and paused his noisy search again, listening hard for signs of either the sheep or help.

With a grunt, he burst through the brush, stumbling over a viney branch around his ankle. He couldn't help but overbalance. Using the crook as an extra leg, Diarmuid steadied himself, then carefully sat on the ground and set to untangling his foot. The thorns nicked at his fingertips and he winced. He was thankful he'd decided on boots today.

When Diarmuid freed himself he was panting softly. He wiped his slippery fingers on his robes and looked around. He didn't understand how a wooley sheep could get through so easily, whereas the young man could not.

He groaned and looked to the treetops. Past the leaves, the sky was turning a deep indigo. Pinpricks of light began to peek out from behind the clouds.. In his struggle, he'd missed the sunset. He would have to turn around and fight his way back through those mad bushes.

The realization made him groan again. This time, he let himself fall back against the soft forest floor. Diarmuid wiped his face with his sleeve.

A sound caught his attention. The waking nocturnal animals were normal, and he hadn't even noticed them begin their nightly symphony. But what was _that?_

Diarmuid strained his ears.

There.

A soft bleat. His heart leapt. Had he still been crashing through the forest, Diarmuid would have missed it.

He whistled again, getting quickly to his feet. The monk snatched up his stick turning in the direction he thought it came from.

There it was again!

"Herrrrre, sheepy sheepy, come here!" He called.

There was another distant _"baa!"_

Diarmuid tilted his head, listening.

A stick snapped to his left, much closer than the sheep. He startled badly and then was immediately annoyed with himself for such a reaction. Of course branches would be settling back into place after his escapades.

Another bleat at least told him which way to turn. As he did, Diarmuid squinted through the dark. It looked like… yep… more brush.

"Come on, you daft animal," he moaned softly.

His heart was still pounding from the snapping branch, but he made his way towards the next round of thorny brush. Diarmuid half heartedly poked at the foliage with his crook and sighed.

He really should go back, but every time he entertained the thought, guilt gnawed at the pit of his already flip flopping stomach.

Taking a deep breath, he jabbed the stick into the bushes and pried the tangled branches back.

Ten minutes later, the young man was a struggling, sweating mess. His curls, once wild, hung limp, sticking uncomfortably to his neck. Diarmuid breathed hard, slicking it back, away from his face. Faint whisps of fog rose from his lips.

Having finally crossed the worst of the brush, he set off at a brisk jog, dodging trees as he went.

Diarmuid didn't know how far he'd gone. He was focused hard on the sporadic bleating, adjusting his route when needed. As it grew darker still, the young man slowed his pace a bit. He began to gently touch the tree trunks with his free hand as he went.

He could barely see. Any light of the moon was too filtered by the leaves to aid him much by the time it touched the ground. There was a rustle from somewhere in the gloom.

A sudden, _loud_ "Baa!" startled the monk.

Diarmuid felt the toe of his boot catch on an upraised root. His ankle went out from him.

 _'Oh, no,'_ he had time to think before he began to tumble.

He threw his arms out to catch himself on the ground, only to be met with an intense, sharp pain that took his breath away upon impact. He cried out softly, looking down.

Oh, that stupid crook. He'd tossed it away while falling, but apparently not far enough. The end had torn straight through his robe. To what further damage, Diarmuid didn't know.

Groaning, Diarmuid tossed the offending object aside and rolled onto his back, writhing and clutching at his right hip. All the cloth was dry. Torn, but dry. His hand came away with no blood. At least the stick hadn't impaled him.

"Ow," he wheezed into the dark. He lay there for a few moments, trying to catch his breath and calm down.

The pain didn't fade for several minutes. When it finally relented, Diarmuid shoved himself sitting up, still panting. Reluctantly, he grabbed the Shepard crook

"Ow," he repeated, staring at it reproachfully.

The stained wood remained silent and stubborn.

"Baaa," said that blasted sheep.

"Come here, little sheepy-sheep," Diarmuid called, trying very hard not to curse.

With a grunt, Diarmuid pushed himself to his knees. Using the stick and his left leg, he shoved himself standing with a smothered shout.

Fire radiated from his hip and leg. He couldn't really feel his foot apart from a strange buzzing, pins-and-needles sensation. The pain shot straight through to his stomach and it lurched dangerously.

When had he started shivering? His shoulders were so tense, nearly touching his ears. He took a deep breath, hugged himself and forced his shoulders down.

There was a rustle to his left now. A shadow in the trees.

 _'Please be the sheep, please be the sheep,'_ Diarmuid prayed, squinting into the dark.

He clucked his tongue again and the shadow moved.

"Baa!"

"Curse you, sheepy, get your wooley behind over here," Diarmuid said sweetly.

The sheep plodded out from between the tree trunks happily and Diarmuid sighed in relief. The monk loosed his rope belt and limped over, gasping whenever his right leg touched the ground.

Tucking the crook under one arm, Diarmuid fashioned a makeshift lead. When he was close enough, he slipped the loop of rope over the sheep's head with no argument.

"Good girl," Diarmuid murmured, scratching her head.

He hobbled back to lean against a nearby tree, suddenly weary. Never letting go of the rope, he slid down, seating himself at the base of his trunk.

The idea of trudging all the way back to the monastery made him sick.

Diarmuid took a shuddering breath. And another. He would rest here for a bit and then simply start back. He couldn't have gone too far, could he?

The monk glanced at the sky, wincing when the sheep plopped down on his right and nuzzled his leg. He distracted her with more pets. The moon was so high. Hadn't it _just_ been sunset?

It didn't matter. Diarmuid shivered again, closing his heavy eyes. He didn't even notice his companion rest her head on his leg.

He'd rest here… just for a moment…

* * *

The Mute crashed through the brush. He didnt care how much noise he made.

When the flock came back minus one human, the Mute stared at the Brother until he stammered out the story. he signed _"Brother Cirian,"_ and took off, heart already in his throat.

He could hear other monks behind him shortly with his keen ears, but nothing of the sheep or Diarmuid.

There.

Twisted branches and broken thorns. Someone came this way recently.

The Mute adjusted his path and kept going another few minutes, hopping treeroots as he went.

He moved quietly now, nearly silent.

More broken branches caught his eye.

A clearing lay beyond them.

The sounds of the monks began to fade away as he outran them easily. 

The Mute leapt over the tangled mess and stopped, straining his eyes and ears, desperate to see or hear anything other than his pulse thundering through him.

His breath fogged the air. 

A small sound reached him. Then a murmured voice. The Mute's shoulders sagged in relief. 

* * *

The Novice awoke with a gasp, slipping against the tree and landing on his back. His eyes were wild with confusion before they landed on the staring sheep tethered to him. The young man actually murmured a swear when his body reminded him of its complaints. The sheep just chewed on its grass.

"Come on, girl, we should head back."

The sky was very much unchanged and still dark as he tried to pull himself up. His leg was so stiff, and feeling through his robe, his hip was alarmingly hard and swollen. His stomach lurched again at the thought of what kind of inside damage he may have done.

Branches crackled to Diarmuid's left. He spun, raising the Shepard crook in defense. There were no wolves around, but there were--

Another shadow.

This one large and looming. His heart began to pound.

Diamruid's breath caught in his throat and he hopped in front of his animal companion. He wobbled badly but stayed standing.

"H-hello?" He hoped his stutter wasn't noticeable.

The shadow stepped forward into the tiny clearing and Diarmuid collapsed to the ground in relief. He was so giddy he barely notice the way his body protested.

"Glé thríc!" Diarmuid exclaimed, laughing. Tears pricked at his eyes. "Oh, thank God!"

In a flash, the Mute was at his friend's side, concern etched into his features. Diarmuid wrapped his shaking arms around the Mute. The older man returned the embrace, noting how the young monk shivered. He could tell he was injured. The Mute patted Diarmuid's arm and tried to get his attention.

 _"Hurt?"_ he signed, sitting back.

Still chuckling, Diamuid nodded. He let go, motioning to his side. Cold seeped back into him.

"I f-fell on this," he pointed to the crook on the ground next to him, "and now there's something wrong with my leg."

The Mute stared at his friend a moment, raising his eyebrows, dipping his chin and letting his hand hover in the air over where Diarmuid indicated. He was clearly asking for permission to examine him. The Novice was too tired to care and he nodded.

He shivered when the Mute's hands traveled down his side. Diarmuid tried hard to remain still and not lean into the warmth. He was so cold.

A large swath of fabric enveloped the young man before the hands continued their exploration.

Before he comprehended what happened, lightening shot through him when the Mute got to his hip. A strangled sound left his throat. The hands left him. The rope on the sheep was removed from his hand.

Just as quickly, the hands were back and pushing him gently down.

"What?" Diarmuid ground out.

 _"Leg and hip, separated,"_ the Mute signed. Diarmuid paled.

"Can it be fixed?" He whispered through gritted teeth.

The Mute grimaced, but nodded.

It would hurt and it would have to be done as soon as possible to prevent permanent damage. He took Diarmuid's hand and pressed it to the hard lump. He mimed pushing down, then held up three fingers. Diarmuid swallowed hard and nodded back.

The Mute patted his friend on the chest before moving down to look closer at Diarmuid's legs. One foot bent in, confirming his thoughts.

He felt Diarmuid flinch when he put a hand on the young man's ankle. The Mute blew out a breath and looked Diarmuid in the eye, eyebrows raised in question. The Novice swallowed again and nodded.

The Mute held up three fingers again.

Three.

Two.

One.

The Mute pressed down on Diarmuid's hand and then moved his own. Twisting the leg, he could feel the bones grinding. Diarmuid let out a whimper but his hold didn't falter.

Finally with a deep _pop!_ , the bone seated itself back in place under his hand. His elbows collapsed under him.

The Mute deftly checked the hard mass was back in place. Diarmuid stared at him tinged green, breathing hard through his nose. The older man nodded and Diarmuid promptly rolled over and loudly wretched. The sheep jumped. The Mute rubbed his back, sympathetic.

"Ohh, that was awful," he hiccupped between gags. "Oh, dear God, that was-- _hurk!_ \--the worst thing I've ever experienced!"

The Mute patted his friend on the back, then tapped his head to get him to look at him.

Eyes glazed, Diarmuid rolled back onto his elbows and struggled to focus on his friend. The Mute pointed at the Novice's foot.

 _"Wiggle,"_ he signed.

The Mute's shoulders sagged when the scratched up boot began to move. Good.

He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He looked up to smile reassuringly, just in time to see Diarmuid's head drop to the ground with a grimace.

He patted Diarmuid's heaving chest again and let his hand rest there for a moment. Diarmuid closed his eyes and tried his best to collect himself. The Mute sat next to him, letting the young man take his time. Before long, he felt the shuddering breaths begin to even out. He tapped on him gently.

"Mm?" Diarmuid opened his eyes. "Thank you." They closed on their own.

The Mute smiled and shook his head, tapping on Diarmuid's chest again.

The young man forced his eyes open once more. They rolled before he squinted at the Mute.

 _"Need to go back,"_ he signed.

"I know," Diarmuid replied, exhaustion evident.

Immediately, the Novice made to get up, dimly thrilled to notice his knee was working again. The Mute jumped and offered a hand, which Diarmuid accepted gratefully. The young man groaned softly, heady with relief when both legs supported his weight.

The dull throb was much more manageable than the sharp, stabbing heat that plagued him before.

"Thank you," Diarmuid said again. "Thank you for finding me. And the sheep."

* * *

They made it back in what felt like no time at all. Diarmuid kept stumbling, so the Mute opted to carry him and the sheep trailed after them. The Mute's hands tugged the oversized jacket tighter around the Novice's shoulders. Diamuid called out to those Brothers they met in the woods.

Before long, everyone was home, and Diarmuid was whisked away to the healer's quarters. Someone took the sheep, leaving the silent man standing there dazed.

Brother Cíarin gently grasped the Mute's shoulder, noting how the larger man twitched slightly before looking at him with slightly glazed eyes.

"Well done," the Brother said, squeezing slightly.

The Mute blinked, coming back. He dipped his chin to acknowledge he'd heard Cíarin.

"He'll be fine, lad," the monk assured him.

He nodded again. Brother Cíarin squinted at his companion. Then he smiled and shook his head. He let go of the Mute's shoulder and patted him firmly on the back, pushing him forward.

"Oh, go on, go look after him," he chuckled, then his bearded face became stern. "Best be sure you get some rest tonight."

The Mute blinked a few times before nodding again.

Cíarin pointed his chin towards the healing hut, "go on."

 _"Thank you,"_ the Mute signed quickly before hurrying off.

* * *

The sky outside the window was pink again when Diarmuid next opened his eyes. The smell of smoke and familiar herbs told him where he was and a quick glance through his squinted eyes confirmed it. The healing hut. He closed his eyes and sighed softly.

He was warm, but cozy, tucked into the soft bed reserved for patients. A particularly intense heat coming from his hip. He moved his hand to find a warm compress on the area. An ache answered the pressure he'd accidentally applied and he winced.

His head felt heavy and hazy, his mouth sticky. It was a blur, but he vaguely remembered accepting a cup of something the head healer had given him. A sleeping draught, no doubt. That made sense. He hadn't been able to stop fidgeting long enough to get any rest after being ordered to.

Diarmuid's cheeks flushed, embarrassed at the fuzzy memory. He'd never been a very good patient.

Diarmuid sat up with a groan, glancing around the room again. There was a table with a jug and cup, but it was out of his reach.

A cup suddenly appeared in front of him, as if summoned.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely, accepting the water gratefully and drinking. Noting for the first time, the bandages wrapped around a few of his fingers.

The Novice choked when he finally looked up and saw the Mute standing over him. The relief on the older man's face turned to concern when the water sprayed everywhere. A large hand thumped him a few times on the back. His eyes began to water.

"I'm okay, I'm okay!" he coughed violently. He held up his own hand to stop the Mute. Diarmuid finally took a deep breath, laughing at himself already between bouts. "Sorry, you just -- _cough!_ \-- surprised me!"

The Mute sat down heavily in a chair next to his bed, still wary. Diarmuid cleared his throat, his face was red, but all smiles.

"Sorry," he said again. The young monk took another sip of water.* "I'm okay."

The Mute leaned back on his chair, amused.

 _"Okay now?"_ he signed with a smirk.

Diarmuid nodded, wiping the tears from his face with his sleeve. His hip ached again from all the commotion, but he ignored it for the time being.

 _"Think you never had water before,"_ the Mute teased.

"Untrue, I've had it…" Diarmuids face screwed up in apparent thought, "at least one other time."

He took another sip of water and then asked, "did the sheep get back okay?"

The Mute snorted, and nodded. He quickly mimed drinking and Diarmuid took another sip, frowned thoughtfully into the cup.

"Are there herbs in this? I can barely taste them."

Caught, the Mute nodded and held up his hand pinching his fingers almost together to mean, "a little". He pointed a finger over his own shoulder at a door Diarmuid knew separated the patients' quarters from the apothecary and Brother Canta's private quarters.

 _"Orders,"_ he signed and shrugged.

"Ugh," said Diarmuid, but he downed the rest of the cup quickly. He toyed with it a moment before the Mute leaned forward and plucked it from his wrapped fingers.

"Thanks," Diarmuid said again.

The Mute just dipped his chin, then signed again, more seriously, _"are you okay?"_.

"Sore, but yes, okay," Diarmuid nodded again.

_"Good, lay back down. Orders."_

The young man scoffed, and the Mute could tell he wanted to argue, but when he opened his mouth to speak, it widened into a yawn. He clapped a hand over it in surprise, then laughed again.

"Fine, fine," he grumbled good-naturedly. "So," he motioned to his leg, " _Is_ everything all right? I can feel everything, but it's…I don't know… weak?"

The older man dipped his head, acknowledging his statement. That was to be expected. A dislocated hip would take at least a few days for the muscles and tendons to tighten back up around the joint.

The Mute helped ease his companion back against the pillows. Almost imperceptibly, the Mute made sure the compress was in place before drawing the blankets back up.

In his haze, Diarmuid noticed how the Mute's face softened. The young monk flushed again.

"Thank you. Again. I mean. I thought for a moment I would have to spend the night out there. It was so cold out there."

Diarmuid shivered involuntarily at the memory, but he recovered quickly and his face broke into a smile.

"I mean, I knew you'd find me, but there was a moment there that those trees were pretty comfortable."

DIarmuid's voice slurred slightly, but didn't slow down. The Mute snorted fodly.

 _"You find me, I find you,"_ the older man signed. 

The novice's eyes were growing heavy, his tongue felt thick in his mouth, and his head was beginning to feel like it was stuffed with cotton. His yeys closed and he mumbled someting the Mute didn't quite hear. The man leaned forward and listened hard, but the young man didn't repeat it. Instead, the bandaged hands fumbled to sign back:

_"Thank you for being a good friend."_

* * *

Note: ((*Sometimes shit just lines up LMAO -- GPTVTMK came on "coughing out your lungs can be a chore" came on while I was writing in the parking lot))

This shit is so generic and tropey lmao 


End file.
